“The same way we’ve been getting all of our intel before you came along. The thing about Legion Guards is they talk too much when they think nobody is watching.” Shura winks. “Now, come on, we have to make you something that won’t stand out but will still make you fit in with the palace Residents.” She moves to take my hand, but pauses when she realizes whose door I just walked out of. Humming, she raises a brow.

“Ahmet wanted me to drop something off,” I say too quickly.

Shura’s smile grows and grows.

“Stop looking at me like that. It’s not what you think.”

She holds up her hands innocently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

And then she laughs like we’re close friends sharing a joke, and I don’t know whether to feel delighted by the rapport or annoyed that for all I’m trying to be stronger, I still can’t seem to remove my heart from my sleeve.

24

AHMET DROPS ME OFF BEHIND a perfumery just north of the market. Unlike the spiral hill I witnessed on Market Day, which boasted impromptu stalls and movable wares, the perfumery sits at the end of the Spring District’s main street, where terraced houses covered in patchwork stones line both sides of the cobblestone road.

Wide bay windows reveal a taste of what’s inside each store. The perfumery’s is lined in magenta crushed velvet and rows of tiny glass bottles. Some are adorned with designs etched in gold, others covered in jewels or odd bits of metal. But all of them look like miniature sculptures, filled to the top with pastel-hued liquids.

The smell of fresh bread and warm honey-butter collides with my senses, and I feel my blood empty.

I see Mom in the kitchen, sprinkling cinnamon into a bowl filled with an eggy mixture. She smiles at me, wavy auburn hair tucked behind her ears, and for a moment I’m a daughter again.

For a moment I feel loved.

“That smell…” I choke, fighting the incoming tears.

Ahmet wrinkles his nose. “It’s the perfume. They smell like your best memories.” He notices I’ve lost hold of my composure and looks away politely. “Everything gets easier after a while. Try to remember that.”

“Easier because you get used to it, or easier because the memories fade and you start to forget?” I ask, stilling the shake in my voice.

Ahmet flattens his mouth, but he doesn’t answer.

I make my way down the alley, catching sight of my reflection in one of the shop windows. My dress is charcoal gray with long sleeves and a high collar. The material fits perfectly around my waist, the long silk skirts flowing gently to the floor. An elaborate golden bird is stitched from hem to hip.